


Final Goodbye

by Earth_Phoenix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Violence, Brutal Murder, Domestic Violence, Everybody Dies, Jealousy, M/M, Murder-Suicide, POV First Person, Paranoia, Sexism, Stalking, Suicide, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earth_Phoenix/pseuds/Earth_Phoenix
Summary: Harry Potter is an award-winning investigative journalist, his new case might just be his last. Harry’s boyfriend, former detective turned private investigator Tom Riddle is convinced that Harry is having an affair with a new contact.Tom’s paranoia is so strong that he’s started following Harry’s every move. Harry can’t make a phone call with Tom hearing every word.It’s only a matter of time before events come to a head.





	Final Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to the amazing Wolf_of_Lilacs for Beta reading this. Your feedback was amazing! 
> 
> A/N: Hello my lovelies! I just want to say, I don't use trigger warnings lightly - so if this isn't your cup of tea, or if this will trigger in some way *please* do not read. 
> 
> Your mental health is more important than some fic. 
> 
> See you on the other side!

I know he’s cheating. It’s obvious, from the way he smiles to the way he falls asleep right after sex. My boy, my Harry, before the affair began would never just fall asleep like that. We’d talk all night in between making love. Plan our lives, share our dreams.

I comforted him about it and he laughed. _Laughed_ and called me paranoid. He lied right to my damn face and said he was just tired. That he loves me. Bullshit.

I’ve taken to following him. I know his routine inside out and backwards. He leaves our home at 6:20, drives to the office. By 7:30 he’s helped himself to a cup of milky coffee and biscuit and settle down to work. He talks to his friends, messes about on his phone, goes to meetings.

He takes his lunch break at 1, walking to the local Subway. He calls me and I pretend to be at work, even though I’m sitting in a car I’ve loaned and watching every bite he takes. Today, he’s eating steak and cheese on Italian bread. He took off the tomatoes that he dislikes, adding jalapenos and sweet onion sauce.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I have him bugged.

“Hey, Tom.” Harry’s voice is loud and happy in my ear. I can see him smiling from my vantage point.

“Hey, baby.” I’m distracted, because Harry meets his lover during his work breaks. I scan for the man’s approach.

“How’s work?” Harry asks. He’s stirring sugar into his tea as he talks. His laptop is open on the table beside him.

“Busy as always.” Aah, there he is. The man that is ruining my relationship walks into the Subway and joins the queue. Harry hasn’t noticed yet. “How is yours?”

I see Harry grimace before he answers, “Ridiculous, my editor is driving me insane.”  By insane, he means he's actually being forced to work and not just mess about playing minesweeper.

Harry works as an Investigative Journalist. It's how we met. At the time I had just been made Detective and given a stack of cold cases to try and close. It just so happened that Harry was investing one the cases for a documentary and wanted to discuss it.

We spent hours talking about the case, the leads that had never been followed up and why DNA hadn’t been tested. He was thrilling to talk to. The conversation soon moved on from the case to more personal matters and by the time he left, we had agreed to meet again - this time for a dinner date.

Remembering the past sours my mood and I can only watch as Harry’s contact moves towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. Harry looks up and smiles.

“I’m sorry, my contact has arrived. We’re still on for tonight though?”

“Absolutely, I’ll pick you up.”

Harry smiles again, “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” I drop the phone into the passenger seat and settle in, knowing that this will take a while.

Harry slips the phone into his jeans pocket. He’s talking to the new arrival. I lean forward to turn up the volume so I can hear them better.

“...I have more questions,” Harry is saying. “I’ve been in contact with someone I think could turn this around, but first I need to know every single detail that you remember of what happened. From waking up and brushing your teeth, to calling the police nine hours later…,”

I rub my hands over my face; they’re talking work. I turned the volume down. Once Harry starts grilling someone it can take awhile. It’s one of the qualities that drew me to him. He can’t let a case go until it makes sense in his mind. He asks questions that people would never think to ask. I’ve told him more than once he’d make a good detective.

As much as I hate to admit, I can see why Harry would be attracted to a man like his new contact. He has a relaxed, easy-going charm, even if his hand shakes a little. There’s a bright aloofness to him. A conventional attractiveness that, had he been an actor, would’ve made him a lot of money indeed.

The contact places a hand on the table, his fingers grazing the top of Harry’s. Rage boils inside of me, filling me completely. _How dare he touch what’s mine._

My eyes narrow as the man tries to make a joke, Harry doesn’t laugh. My boy’s eyes are fixed on his laptop, one hand hovering over the keyboard, tapping in commands in every now and then, the other hand wrapped loosely around his teacup.

I watch as Harry turns the laptop around pointing, at something. The man, who Harry has only called “Padfoot” looks away from the screen, uncomfortable. Good, I think savagely. Piss off away from him.

My wish comes true. There’s a heated discussion. “Padfoot” stands up and leaves. I turn the volume back up in time to hear Harry swear. I watch as Harry slams his laptop lid closed and pulls out his mobile.

“Hey, look, I’m going to need the rest of the afternoon off.” A pause and I raise my eyebrow. “Do you want this article finished or not?!” The call ends and Harry punches in another number. My phone rings and I hastily turn off the volume.

“Hey, Harry.”

My anger isn’t sated, however. I want to make Padfoot pay for what he’s done. I want Padfoot to bleed. To beg for mercy and find none. I want him to die. I try to breathe, Harry is still talking in my ear and I try to focus on the sound of his voice and not the image of Padfoot lying dead in a pool of his own blood.

“I know you’re busy, but I’m bailing on work. Do you want to meet me at home?” Harry’s voice is low and suggestive. My cock twitches.

“Of course I do,” Harry is moving around, throwing his uneaten food away and packing up his laptop. _Shit_. For a moment I panic. Harry is going to leave and see me. I have to keep him distracted.

“So, listen, I’m working but I’ll be with you as soon as I can, OK?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll be waiting.”

Harry heads towards the door. I tug the hoodie I’m wearing further over my head and slide a pair of sunglasses onto my face.

“Mhm, you’d better be naked -,” As I talk, I turn the car’s engine on and pull out onto the road.

Harry steps out of the shop, just as I reach the end of the road.

From the rearview mirror, I watch as he starts his walk back to work and then stops. He kneels down. I’m frowning he doesn’t seem hurt and he doesn’t wear laces so why? But then he’s standing, helping up a young man. God damnit, if I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times; leave the homeless to their lot, they are not our concern.

That isn’t Harry though, if he sees someone in need he tries to help.

“Hey, Tom, I just need to do something, I’ll call you back in a bit.” Before I can reply he’s rung off.

With irritation, I watch as Harry walks the homeless person into the Subway. His journalist instincts kicking in. I can picture him, his mind working away, scraping whatever article he was working on before, for this. _Our Lost Youth: Why Britain's Young Men Are Living On The Streets_

I’ve watched him as he’s done this before. His editor starts using words like “deadline” and Harry shrugs and rolls his eyes until the moment where he realises he needs to submit his piece in four hours and he’s only written a vague headline. He’ll waste time playing with fonts and finding music he can “vibe” too (whatever the hell that means, six years and I still don’t understand) before finally setting down to write.

I’ve watched this process a hundred times and I still couldn’t tell you how Harry ever gets his work in on time. Harry is a mystery.

I check my watch, I could go home and wait for him. Harry’s voice is still coming through the speaker, he’s ordering food for the man whose name appears to be Aflie, asking a dozen questions a minute. Poor Alfie can only try and answer in the breaks where Harry has to pause to breathe. Oh God, this could take hours.

Something keeps me in the car. I’ve parked on a side street, which means I can no longer see Harry. It’s that, I think, more than anything else that keeps me from leaving.

Harry’s tirade of questions only ends when his phone rings. His voice is tired and I can picture him musing his wild hair as he listens to the person speaking on the other end. “...Bill, I told you yesterday that the answer is no. It’s boring.”

Bill is Harry’s best friend’s older brother and CEO of a publishing House. He’s been trying to convince Harry to write a book on a well known unsolved case and Harry has refused every time.

If you were to ask Harry who was responsible for the death of America’s Sweetheart, he’d tell you the brother did it out of spite and jealousy. A controversial opinion for sure, but one that has been around since the murder happened. Which is why Harry believes it to be boring.

“Until there is new evidence in the case, we’re all just repeating ourselves.” He told once over dinner. “And the chances of new evidence turning up is minimal, the family contaminated the crime scene, the police made dozens of mistakes and evidence has been either lost or destroyed.”

We’ve had friendly fights over the state of the police force in America. I try to defend my brethren, explaining things from the police’s POV, while Harry pokes holes and asks questions only an outsider would think of.

“...Oh?” Harry has paused mid-step. “Wait they found a body? Huh.” I can see from Harry’s expression that’s being talked into whatever Bill is saying. “But how did -?” The wheels in Harry’s head are turning. He’s intrigued.

Bill might finally get Harry to sign a book deal after all. Harry always did love an unsolved mystery.

There’s a sudden tinkering of a shop bell and the sounds of the street can be heard. I sit up and pay attention. Harry’s on the move. He passes by the car, lost in his phone. I breathe a sigh of relief that I haven’t been caught following him.

I drive to the next road and watch as Harry crosses the road, finally reaching the car park. I stop my car, to turn on the video feeds. I spent the better part of a week hiding cameras in Harry’s car. Every angle is covered.

He turns the radio on and starts the engine. I give him a decent head start then follow him. To my pleasure, he drives straight home, parking in our driveway. He doesn’t seem surprised that I’m not home yet and he lets himself in.

I drive around our neighbours for another few minutes and then head home. I park next to Harry’s car. I turn off the feeds I’ve been using, hiding them from view. Satisfied that Harry would never be able to spot them should he look, I exit the car.

“Harry?” I call.

“You’re home!” Harry appears at the top of the stairs, shirtless. The top button of his jeans is undone invitingly.

I stare at the tanned skin of his chest. My boy is so beautiful. The image of Harry speaking to Padfoot fills my mind and I need to claim him. I need to make sure Harry knows he’s mine and no one else's.

I meet him at the top of the stairs and pull him into a fierce kiss. His lips are soft against mine and I bite them, not caring if I draw blood. Harry let’s out a soft whimper. He presses more firmly against me, his arms wrapping around my neck. He breaks off the kiss.

“Oh God, Tom. Fuck me, please.”

He sounds so desperate and needy that all I can do is nod. I scoop him into my arms and carry him into the bedroom.

 

~*~

 

Later, Harry is sleeping soundly in bed. His skin is red and sore where I’ve bitten and marked him. Deep purple bruises litter his neck and shoulders.

I’m sitting in bed next to him, reading his texts. He locked his phone of course, but that was easy to get around in his sleeping state.

Most of his texts are work-related, the rest are from myself and his friends. I quickly find the ones from Padfoot. The conversations are mostly one-sided with Harry only responding with “OK,” or “sounds good.”

Padfoot’s texts were more suspect. “I need to see you,”; “meet me in 45 minutes” and most infuriating of all “call me on the other line.”

I get out of bed and replace Harry’s phone in his jeans pocket. So, he has another phone, does he? Well not for long. I slip on boxers and then start my search.

I’ve almost finished looking through Harry’s drawers when he stirs. “Tom,” his voice is filled with sleep.

“Hello, sleepy head.” I walk over to him and kiss his forehead.

“Come back to bed,” He pats the side of the bed, “Help me wake up properly.” He stretches out like a cat. The duvet slips down to rest just above his waist.

“Are you sure you’re ready for another round?” I tease. I lean down over him, nuzzling the side of his neck. The fact that he wants me, that desires me temporarily quiets my jealousy.

I crawl on top of him, trailing kisses over every inch of skin my lips can find. Harry is making adorable little mews underneath me and this is bliss.

Our dinner plans are completely forgotten

 

~*~

 

Harry isn’t beside when I wake later in the night. For a moment fear grips me and I wonder if he’s gone to meet his lover. I hurry out of bed and dress, ready to get in the car and drag him back home. As I reach the top of the landing, however, I see a soft flickering light coming from the living room.

There he is. Sitting on the floor with his back resting against the sofa, Harry is staring at his laptop screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

Candles are casting the flickering light. About a dozen of them scattered around the room. Harry loves writing by candlelight, it claims it adds a “gothic feel” to the piece. I disagree, Harry’s pieces don’t need an added gothic feel.

He has headphones on and doesn’t hear me approach. He jumps a little as I sit down on the sofa, my leg knocking into his arm.

“Jesus, Tom.” He takes off his headphones and shakes his head. “Warn me next time.”

I lean over to see what he’s working on. A page covered in text greets me. I catch sentence fragments.

_The car was discovered two days later, the body of Jessica Freeman was found in the backseat. She had been strangled to death._

“You write about the loveliest things.” I tease.

Harry snorts and rolls his neck. I want to ask about the homeless man from yesterday, but that would reveal more than I’m willing to admit.

“So,” Harry asks casually, “Did you find anything interesting when you went through my phone?”

He turns around to look at me, annoyance flashing through his eyes.

“No,” I admit “Though I don’t like the texts Padfoot sends you.”

“Oh for fuck sake,” Harry stands, crossing the room to get away from me. “He’s the only witness in a possible wrongful conviction case. Do you think getting information out of him is easy? No, actually it’s been fucking hard work.” Harry keeps his voice low. “So yeah, if texts me wanting to offer up information, I’m hardly going to spook him am I?”

We stare at each other tensely. “What about he told you to call the ‘other line’ then?”

If looks could kill, I would surely be ten foot under. “ _HIS_ other line. _HIS!_ He’s nervous, he thought our calls were being bugged, which is silly I know but -,” He stops chest heaving and looks at me. It’s like watching dawn break in his eyes.

“Please tell me you have haven’t put bugs on my phone.” Not just your phone sweetheart, I think.

I say nothing. Harry looks betrayed and hurt.

“I’m done,” He says finally. “I love you but I’m done.” He grabs his laptop, closing it.

“Harry,” I say then stop. I have no idea what to say to him. I open my mouth to speak but he stops me.

“Don’t. Don’t even think about it,” He heads to the living room door and stops. “I know you think I’m having an affair, but I’m not. I wish you could learn to trust me. I trust you.”

There’s nothing I can say to that. I don’t trust him, not even a little. I follow him. I’m so close I smell his scent, it’s intoxicating.

“Are you?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I have to know.

Harry swings round, mouth agape. “No!”

What happens next, happens so fast I can barely register myself what is going on. Harry pushes me away from him. Someone, maybe both of us yell. Then silence.

I’m panting as if I’ve just run a mile, Harry is laying on the floor. He’s cupping the side of his face, blood leaking through his fingers.

I hit him.

I actually hit him.

Shit.

“Harry, I’m sorry.” I kneel to help him.

The blood is dark and wet. I pull my shirt off and press it against Harry’s face, trying to stem the bleeding. He hisses in pain.

“I -,” I can’t think, my mind is blank. “I promise this was an accident. I never meant to hurt you.”

Harry looks up at me. His green eyes are laced with pain and fear. I stumble back, swallowing hard. _He fears me._

“You’re a monster,” He says carefully, calmly. He makes it sound like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is.

Harry slowly sits up, throwing my shirt away from him as he does so. He touches his mouth. Checking with his tongue to make sure he has all his teeth. He does.

There’s blood pouring from his mouth, his bottom lip is swelling like a balloon. We both sit in shock for a moment. Harry starts to slowly stand, his legs wobbly. He holds out a blood-stained hand, the blood so stark against his skin.

I move forward again, my hands outstretched.

“No,” is all he says.

He walks out of the room, the door closing behind him with a snap. I stay, half risen, as Harry thunders up the stairs and into the bathroom.

As Harry begins to wander around I sit on the sofa. For the first time, I notice my right hand. The knuckles are bruised and covered in blood. Harry’s blood.

A door slams upstairs. I don’t move. I made him fear me. That thought plays over in my head, chilling me.

When I head back upstairs, it’s to find the spare room door closed. I knock, but Harry doesn’t answer.

 

~*~

 

Harry leaves for work early and I’m left alone to wander the house barefoot. I contemplate following him, but figure that will do more harm than good. I’m not about to lose Harry. Not for any reason.

I eventually leave for work, but I can’t focus. Harry is still bugged, so I could turn on the volume in the speaker set and find out what he’s doing. I resist temptation. He’s mad at me enough already.

Work can’t hold my interest, so I end up going home early. Harry’s car is parked on the driveway, along with Ron and Hermione’s - his best friends car. Bags are pilled up in Harry’s. I spot his laptop and work folders in the backseat.

Fuck.

Walking into the house, I find Hermione in the living room, packing away Harry’s pictures.

“Get out,” I say coldly and Hermione jumps, almost sending a picture of Harry’s parents crashing to the ground. She catches it just in time, holding it to her breast.

“Oh, Tom. You’re home. Harry! Harry, Tom’s back!” She calls loudly, her voice shaky.

“I said, ‘get out.’”

Before Hermione can say anything, I hear a thundering on the stairs and Harry appears.

“I was hoping to be gone before you got home,” He’s holding a gym bag. “Leave my friends alone.”  

“You’re leaving.” My mouth feels dry, my throat feels tight. His cheek is swollen from the night before, as is his bottom lip.

I wonder how much damage I’ve done to him. I don’t ask. He’s wearing a gauze over his cheek, there’s bruising under his eye.

I want to ask if he’s told his friends, if the people he works with know. I don’t say anything and neither does he.

“I can’t stay with someone who spies on me because he’s paranoid I’m going to cheat.” Harry looks at me fiercely. “You need to work on your issues if you want me back.”

I grab him by the arm and squeeze. “If you leave, it’ll be a mistake.” It sounds more like a threat than I wanted it to. There’s a flash of something in Harry’s eyes, but I don’t know what it is. Maybe I just don’t want to know.

“No, the mistake would be staying with someone who spies on the people he loves.” He tugs his arm out of my grip. “Let’s go, guys.”

I stand aside to let Hermione pass, noting that in the box she’s carrying are Harry’s journalism awards.

A glance towards the mantelpiece in the living room confirms that they’re gone. Harry’s NPA’s for Specialist Journalist of the Year and Scoop Of The Year are the only ones left, locked inside one the cabinets.

Harry walks back in, his car keys held loosely in his hand, “I’ll come back for the rest later.”

Without thinking I walk over to him and cup his face in my hands as gently as I can. “Please stay.”

Harry winces. “Goodbye, Tom.” He turns his back on me and walks away.

I can’t watch him leave, so I don’t.

There’s a pause, and I hear Harry sigh before opening the front door again. The door closes on him. On us.

 

~*~

 

Before Harry started this new case, this new investigation, everything was perfect in our lives. Well, maybe not perfect - we fought, had fantastic make up sex afterwards. Harry would complain about my taste in music and movies; I’d complain about his.

We were a normal couple. We were happy.

Harry is picking the last of his things up today. He’s going to arrive when I leave for work. That is the idea anyway. He doesn’t want to be alone with me, not that I blame him.

Still, it hurts. My boy is leaving and I can’t stop him.

It’s all Padfoot’s fault. Padfoot started making moves on Harry - if he’d just left Harry alone. Had kept his dick in his pants.

I force myself to calm down. Getting angry isn’t going to help. I lock the front door and walk down the street, there’s a little cafe that Harry and I used to go to for breakfast sometimes, a few streets away. There’s a part of me that hopes if I stay close, he’ll bump into me. We’ll talk and he'll come home.

Because if he doesn’t. If Harry doesn’t come back, well, I know just who to blame.

If Harry doesn’t come home to me, I am going to make Padfoot pay.

  


~*~

 

I have a plan.

It’s not a brilliant one by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s a plan nonetheless. Harry has been gone for almost two weeks now. The first few days I followed him as I normally did.

Harry looked miserable. He rarely smiled and he did it looked painful and forced. He stopped going for lunch, choosing to work through his lunch break instead.

In fact, I dare say his life revolves around work now. Where once he would have left the office as early as possible, he’s staying well into the night.

I’ve missed him terribly. The house feels empty, like its soul had been removed - if you believe in such concepts.

I’m sitting on a bench outside of his office. From here, I can see his office light is still on. Nearly everyone has left. A few windows down from Harry’s fifth office, I can see a man pacing back and forth in front of the window. Harry’s editor, Remus Lupin.

I’ve always liked Remus, he’s straight as far as I know. Straight men aren’t interested in Harry, not the way other’s are. The way I am.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my mobile and dial Harry’s number, I haven’t spoken to him since he left. The phone rings for far longer than it used to. “Hello,” Harry’s voice is dull, tired. I wonder if he’s getting enough sleep.

“Hi,” There’s an awkward pause, he’s waiting to find out why I’m calling. “I found some of your things, I thought maybe you’d want to come and get them.”

“Oh,” There’s surprise in his voice. “Sure.”

I smile, “I’m busy this week, but you could come Friday night if that’s OK?”

“Erm,” I can hear tapping from Harry’s end, as he calls up his calendar on the computer. “I can do Friday. I can’t stay though.” His voice becomes firm. “I’m working Saturday.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “It’ll just be a pickup, nothing more.”

“See you,” Harry says and hangs up.

I press the phone to my lips. “See you, indeed.”

 

~*~

  


By the time Friday rolls around I am a bundle of nerves and excitement. Harry would be arriving in a few hours. My boy would be home again - this time for good.

However, before Harry arrives I am expecting one more visitor. I roam the house, making sure everything looks right. I can’t afford for this to go wrong. It’s do or die.

I’m growing silently impatient as the minutes' tick by, slowly becoming hours. At last, much later than planned the long-awaited knock at the door comes. We’ve never met face to face before. Which is just perfect for me.

I open the door, trying to be as friendly and welcoming as possible. “Hi! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

 

~*~

 

The whole of downstairs is flickering with soft candlelight. I’ve painstakingly placed Harry’s favourite tealights everywhere. I have to admit it does give off a warm, welcoming feeling. Maybe Harry was right to write in the dark like this.

I make a final check on my visitor from earlier and then head towards the front door and wait.

 

~*~

 

The first thing I notice is that Harry’s face looks like it’s healed well. There’s a line on his bottom lip from where it split. Most people wouldn’t even notice it. He’s dressed casually today. I don’t like it.

He tugs on the sleeve of his hoodie, the khaki's making him look impossibly smaller.

I want to hug him, to pull him close and never let go. But first, I need him to trust me again. I need to prove myself to him.

“Hello, Harry.”

His eyes flick up to mine, “Hi,” He says softly.

“Come on in.”

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, his right leg twitching. “You can’t bring whatever it is out?” he asks.

“I’d like to talk - just for a few minutes.”

I see the hesitation in his eyes. “Alright.”

He steps through the door and I relax. Now for the easy part.

I lead Harry into the living room, where my guest awaits. If this doesn’t Harry how much our relationship means to me, I’m not sure what will.

Harry stands framed in the doorway, the candlelight casting shadows on his face. His eyes are blown wide as he stares into the living room.

Padfoot is tied to a chair in the centre of the room. He’s bleeding slightly from a head wound. His fingers are twisted from where I had broken them earlier in the day.

“Padfoot?” He takes a small step into the room, not quite believing what he’s seeing. “Padfoot!” Harry races over to where I have Padfoot bound.

I frown, this is not quite the reaction I was going for.

“What have you done?” Harry’s voice is shrill, panicking. He turns back to Padfoot. “Come on, Padfoot. Wake up.”

“Harry!” He turns, spinning around as if forgetting I was even there. How could he forget me so easily? “Stop.”

“Tom, not sure if you know this, but there is an injured and unconscious man in _your_ living room. Help him!”  He’s standing in front on Padfoot. “I’m calling for help.”

“No,” I say quietly. I move, snatching his phone out his hands before he can stop me. I throw the phone across the floor and we watch - together - as it comes to a halt in a corner of the room.

“Tom!” Harry is flabbergasted. “You have to help him.” His eyes are pleading, begging me silently to help.

“I’d rather help us,” I counter.

“What are you talking about?” He’s looking at me oddly, backing slowly away. There’s nothing but empty air behind him. He looks nervously over his shoulder, the wall is still some distance away.

“I’m talking about _us_ ,” My eyes are locked on his. “You wanted trust? This is it.”

“Tom, you’re not thinking clearly.” His back hits the wall.

“I am, I’ve been thinking of nothing else since you left. This is the only way for us to be happy.” This is the only thing that even makes sense.

Harry is shaking his head, his wild hair flying. “Tom, you’re talking about hurting someone. Look at him!” He screams.

“I know,” I keep my voice soft. “Harry if he dies, all our problems go away.”

“What,” Harry asks slowly “the actual fuck?”

“He loves you,” I inform him “And I can’t allow that. You are mine.”

Harry tries to run, heading to the living room door. I catch him before he does. There’s a scuffle, he’s fighting me, desperately trying to push away from me.

“Tom, no!” Harry’s voice is full of desperation. He manages to place his hands on my chest and push. I half stumble back and he’s turning. His back’s to me as he once again tries to flee.

I didn’t want to hurt him, but he’s leaving me no choice. I drop top ground and kick his feet out from under him. As he falls, I’m already moving grabbing his left arm and twisting it up behind his back, forcing it up. He screams as his arm nears its breaking point.

“I will break it.” I’m panting heavily. We both are. He stills. “Why are you fighting this?” I sound exasperated.

“Tom, you don’t have to hurt anyone. Just let Padfoot go.”

“I will,” I lean down and kiss the top of his head. “In a body bag.”

“No!” He tries to get up, his legs kicking wildly behind him. I sigh and push his arm up. There’s a loud snap in the room as the pressure becomes too much and the bone breaks.

Harry’s scream is loud enough to wake the dead, or at least Padfoot. Padfoot -- the cause of my troubles stirs -- returning to consciousness. He blinks rapidly, trying to work out where he is, why there’s screaming.

I stand, leaving Harry gasping and crying on the floor, his tears soaking into the carpet.

“Good evening Padfoot,” He stares at me, his long black hair covering half of his face. His eyes travel to where Harry is lying, his broken arm still twisted behind his back.

“Jesus Christ,” Padfoot whispers. The colour drains from his face. “What are you doing?”

“I am saving my relationship.” Harry manages a chocked, hysterical laugh. I ignore him, my attention fixed solely on Padfoot.

“Wha -?”

“Oh stop it,” I snap. “I’ve seen the way you look at Harry. The way you manage to accidentally touch him.”

“I’ve never -,” He tries to lie.

“I’ve watched you,” I say quietly. Harry has stopped crying. He’s breathing harshly, listening to every word I say. “I protect what is mine.”

Padfoot goes to open his mouth, so I stop him. Permanently. Lying on the sofa, unnoticed by Harry until now is a cricket bat. I pick it up, walk over to where I have Padfoot tied and swing.

Blood and teeth gush out of his mouth. I swing again. There’s blood pouring out of his nose and his mouth looks a mess. My aim has always been pretty good.

His jaw is broken, and as much as he would like to, Padfoot can no longer move his mouth to even scream.

With Padfoot quiet, I return my attention to Harry. His eyes are wild, panicked. He tries to move away from me. I have the advantage. I lean down and scoop him up. He screams, his back arching in pain. I adjust him so that I’m holding him without causing more pain to his arm.

I place him gently on the sofa, whispering apologies into his ear. I hadn’t planned on hurting him, honestly, I hadn’t. Harry has always had a strong sense of right and wrong. It makes him so good at what he does. He wants the truth, and justice if he can get it, no matter the cost.

The world doesn’t need superheroes, it needs more people like Harry. More people willing to do what is right, because it’s right.

“Tom,” Harry’s voice is pained, it’s costing him everything he has to speak. “You can still stop this. There is still time. You have to listen to me. You have to _trust_ me.”

“This is me trusting you. Once Padfoot is gone, we can together again. We can be like we were before.”

Harry is shaking his head, his eyes are bright with tears. “Tom, no. Not like this.”

He’ll see. He’ll see I’m right in the end.

I leave the living room. Harry is in too much pain to do anything and Padfoot is hardly going anywhere. I pad casually into the kitchen. Water, pain meds, gauze.

I stroll around, collecting the items I need. My eyes linger on the knife drawer. I grab the sharpest one and head back to Harry.

 

~*~

 

Harry is still on the sofa, trying to hug his broken arm to himself without causing it to hurt more. He’s moved from where I left him, but I pay that no mind. Harry looks up at me and then quickly looks away. I drop the knife, onto the coffee table and move towards Harry. He flinches, but I ignore that.

“Here,” I offer him the glass of water and he takes it with his good hand. I pop the tablets out, holding them up to his mouth. He hesitates then opens his mouth to take them, chugging down half the water.

Harry pulls a face. “Gross,”

I chuckle, “Are you hurt?” He looks at me like I’m stupid, “Apart from your arm?”

Harry shrugs, “Nothing getting out of here won’t fix.”

“You’re not leaving me again.” My tone is sharper than I meant it to be, and Harry recoils. “I’m sorry. I'm trying to fix this.”

“Newsflash: You failed. This isn’t fixing anything, it’s actively making it worse.”

I don’t answer him, instead, I turn and walk towards the reason we broke up. The bat did more damage than I first thought. The right side of Padfoot’s face is caved in. There’s a line going from behind his ear to the top his skull. Parts of the skull are visible. I’m rather proud of myself.

I pick up the bat from where I dropped it earlier. I could finish him off so easily. The former pretty boy would be unrecognisable.

“Tom, don’t,” Harry is shuffling forward on the sofa, and I turn to look at him. “Look at him, if you let him go doctors might be able to save him.”

“Why are you so concerned with his life?” My jealousy is getting the better of me. “I am getting tired of you talking about him. Worrying over _him_.”

“No one has to die today,” Harry says quietly, looking down at the carpet. “I just want us all to leave here with our lives.”

“Two of us will,” I assure him. “But not him.”

Harry looks down, “not you either.” He stands, swaying a little. “I am not going to stand by as you kill someone in cold blood. Stop now, or I will stop you.”

Sometimes, just sometimes, Harry’s sense of right and wrong do tends to get in people’s way. I should have planned for this. Nevermind. Harry is injured, he’s not a threat.

“Sit down, Harry.”

He doesn’t. He lunges for the coffee table. It takes me a split second too long to realise he’s aiming for the knife. Harry’s reflexes are sharp. His days of playing rugby as a teen coming in handy. Damn him.

He manages to reach the knife before I can stop him. He sprints over to Padfoot and cuts through the rope.

“Get out of my way, Tom.” Harry lifts Padfoots arm over his shoulder, the older man leans against Harry’s side, pressing against the broken arm. Harry hisses in pain and staggers a little, but manages to remain on his feet. Harry is holding the knife tightly in his good hand.

“You’re very brave, darling,” I say. My hands are in the air in front of me, I’m walking slowly as if approaching a startled wild animal that might flee at any moment.

“You don’t have to be brave anymore, I’m here to protect you.”

“Oh, so you were protecting me when you hit me? When you broke my arm? When you went apeshit on someone’s face?”

I have never seen Harry so angry before. There’s a part of me that wants to push him, see just how far he’ll go before he snaps. The more rowdy part of me what’s to pin him to the floor and fuck him senseless.

“Yes.” Why can’t he see that all I’m trying to do is look after him? “If you just let me look after you, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Harry’s strength is waning, and his knees are sagging trying to hold up Padfoot. I take a step close to him.

“Harry, you don’t have to do this.”

“Move,” Harry winces as he tries to adjust Padfoot. Not even the painkillers and handle the pain Harry is putting his arm through right now.

“No,” I take another step forward. Harry crumbles, whether from the strain of trying to hold Padfoot up, or the pain of his broken arm - perhaps both, Harry’s eyes roll back and he falls.

I shove Padfoot’s dead weight off of him and check his pulse. He’s alive, thank God, just conscious.

In the distance, I hear the wail of sirens. Out of habit, I search through Harry’s pockets to find his phone.

Shit.

Double shit.

_Harry, stay safe. Help is on the way. Stall Riddle for as long as you can, the police are coming.  - RL_

There’s no use. I have to act, now. So much for enjoying watching Padfoot beg for mercy. I take the knife out of Harry’s hand and run it across Padfoot’s throat. That’s one problem down.

I pick Harry up and carry him outside. With a bit of jiggling around, I finally manage to open the car door and lie Harry down on the back seat. I make a quick dash inside to get supplies (the first aid kit, water bottles and food) and then kick over some of the candles.

It only takes seconds for smoke to start filling the room. I hear coughing from the living room. Padfoot still breathes. Well, not for much longer. I grab the living room door handle and close it. Several of the living room candles were near the curtains, it won’t take long for them to catch fire.

When I return to the car, Harry is still passed out. By the time I’m at the end of our road, police cars are just turning onto it.

I press the gas pedal more firmly and drive. I keep a steady pace, knowing that if I were to speed off the police would be all over in minutes.

By some stroke of luck, I make it to the motorway. Harry still hasn’t come round; my concern for him is growing.

I drive all night. Harry’s disappearance makes the news.

_Late last night, police were called to a disturbance at Mr. Potter’s residence. Officers found the home ablaze with only one body inside. Police are combing the area in search of Mr. Potter._

Around dawn, Harry wakes with a cry of pain. I pull into the first layby and try to help him as best I can. I give him water and more pain medication.

I check Harry over, he’s fading in and out of consciousness. My mouth is dry as I search for the reason. _There_ . There’s a lump the size of a golf ball on the back of Harry’s head. _I let him sleep all this time_ . _Fuck._

“Harry!” I slap him across the face, and he blinks at me then closes his eyes. “Harry no, Harry stay awake!”

“Am,” he mutters. It’s so quiet I almost miss it. His eyes are unfocused and glassy.

I pull him upright, but his head lolls to one side, his eyes closing again.

OK,  think, I tell myself. I move away from the car and begin pacing. If I take Harry to a hospital they could probably save his life, but then he’d discover what happened last night. With other people around him. Touching him. Poisoning him against me.

Without a hospital, he’s going to die. I stop pacing and look at him. His face is screwed up in pain.

He doesn’t have to die like this. I can end his suffering.

Harry’s body has sagged in his seat, his broken arm looks horrible and with a sudden jolt of horror, I know why. Bone marrow is seeping into his bloodstream, slowly blocking his red blood cells. His body is killing him.

I pull Harry from the car and carry him over to a patch of trees. He’s limp.

When we get into the trees, I find it’s denser than it looked. Thank God. I sit him against a tree, it seems quiet and there are things I need.

I head back to the car, making sure I know how to find this place again. _I’ll be quick as I can, Harry. I promise._

 

_~*~_

 

It’s midday when I make it back. Harry is exactly where I left him. His eyes are closed, he doesn’t twitch as I approach him.

I kneel next to him, I could probably just leave him here and drive away. He’d die eventually, but no. I need to give him a better death. It’s the least I can do.

I cradle Harry in my arms and press a kiss to his lips for the last time. “Goodbye, Harry.” I cover his mouth and nose with my hand. His eyes fly open, his legs kick weakly for a minute and then stop. I hold his body close, pressing my face into his hair. Burning his memory into my brain.

I lie his body down gently, pressing soft kisses to his forehead and then pick up my newly purchased shovel and begin to dig.

 

~*~

 

_The body found inside the Potter home is not believed to be that of the journalist. Harry Potter, 33, has not been since he left work at 6pm on October 3rd. Police would like to speak to Mr. Potter’s ex-boyfriend, Former Detective turned Private Investigator Tom Riddle, 45, to rule him out as a suspect._

I turn the radio off. I am not going to the police. The police are stupid, but they are not stupid enough to think the ex-boyfriend hasn’t gone to them to find out if Harry is safe, or if the body was Harry’s. The only reason you wouldn’t do that is if you know the answer already - and I do.

I lean back in the driver’s seat of the loan car. Knowing the police as I do, it’s been fairly easy to stay hidden. I’ve not gone back to our old haunts and I’ve not tried to contact anyone either I or Harry knew.

There’s a grim satisfaction in that fact that I am the only person who knows where Harry is. No one will ever find him, no one will ever take him away from me again. Harry is mine forever.

I lean forward and turn the engine on. I’ve been charging my phone using the car’s lighter. A risk, I know, but it’s been helping to keep me the loop. My phone turns on. 93 missed calls from Harry’s mother, Lily; 85 from his father James. Dozens more from his friends. 312 unread text messages.

Opening a new app, I greeted by Harry’s face. Harry is holding an award and laughing, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He’s clasping someone’s hand - mine. I’ve been cropped out of the picture, but I don’t mind. In that moment Harry looks beautiful. It was the night of his first big win.

Harry had spent almost two years investigating a human trafficking ring. When he broke the story, it was huge.

The sheer size and scale of the ring; the people Harry named in his two-page story shook the country.

Overnight Harry became the golden child of investigative journalism. From then on, his phone never stopped ringing. People wanted to him appear on their shows; in magazines; report on their stories.

It was the night I started to lose him. Harry was no longer mine and mine alone, he now belonged to the public.

The phone rings and instinctively I answer it.

“Hello?”

“Tom, oh thank goodness. Tom are you OK?” It’s Albus Dumbledore, Cheif Superintendent of the Met, and also my former boss.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“And Harry, is he fine too?”

I say nothing. Harry is technically fine, in that being dead he can no longer come to any harm and isn’t in pain anymore. Somehow, I don’t think Albus is going to like my version of ‘Harry is fine.’

“Tom, you need to hand yourself in. There are officers in the house as we speak. You need to explain your side of the story.”

I don’t answer and I simply end the call and shut down the phone. I need to move before Albus uses the phone signal to track me down.

If Albus actually believes I’m going to just hand myself in, he has well and truly lost the plot.

 

~*~

 

Every siren has been on edge. The sight of a police car in front or behind me convinces me that I’ve been caught. Being on the run is stressful work. My name is now headline news. My picture is being shown on TV screens across the country, in every newspaper.

Walking into a petrol station, I catch the headline _Manhunt Continues: The Search For A Double Killer Intensives._

The thing that stands out to me the most is of course “double killer.” The police must have decided that Harry is no longer alive - which is true, but I can’t help my wonder how they reached that conclusion.

Was my silence enough to convince Albus that Harry was dead? Did I leave behind some evidence? Have they discovered his body?

The idea of Harry’s body being disturbed, of someone placing him on a cold table and cutting him open to perform an autopsy, disgusts me. Harry is perfect, and I won’t have anyone treating him as if he’s a piece of meat on a slab that they can cut up.

I pay for my fuel, keeping my head down. The teenager behind the counter doesn’t even seem to notice and hands me my change with only the smallest of eye movement in my direction.

It’s not until I’m unlocking the car, that a tired looking father pulls up next to me. His excited child points directly at me.

“Daddy look! It’s the man on TV!”

I hastily get onto the car and peel out of the petrol station, driving straight into traffic and not giving a rat’s arse.

I am drawn back to where Harry is. I can’t stay away, especially after that close call. The ground that conceals Harry is the same as I left it.

As night draws closer, I end up sitting next to a tree, not far from Harry. Tomorrow I’ll move again, heading north would make the most sense. For now, though, my boy and I are together once more.

 

~*~

 

Heading north, it turns out, was a bad idea. It started when I joined the motorway. For five miles the speed was 5mph while the police attended a traffic accident. It was a tense five miles as people did double takes.

Finally, the crash is behind me and I am able to get up a decent speed. Scotland is ahead of me. Leaving Harry’s body in London was terrible, but I had no other choice.

As I neared Edinburgh, the traffic crawled to a stop. A car full of giggly teenage girls were the first to spot me. Phones were pointed in my direction. The traffic still hadn’t moved twenty minutes later when the police sirens blared out across the motorway.

Cars begin moving out the way as much as they can, to allow the police to room to move. The girls have gotten out of their car, they’re pointing and exclaiming at me. People are starting to exit their cars. Perfect.

I step out of the car and a hush falls. I wonder if they think I’m armed.

“Tom, don’t try to run!”

I turn my head, a female officer is standing behind the door of a parked car. _A woman_. I roll my eyes. Couldn’t they at least have sent a real police officer to catch me?

I walk away from the car, and people scatter before me. The woman yells some more, as women are want to do, and I ignore her.

There’s a blue car with its driver’s side door open. The engine is running, the keys in the ignition. The car is also rather helpfully sitting in the left-hand lane. I just need to get into it.

The car owner approaches me, a smile on his face. “Dude, just hand yourself over.” He offers me a toothy grin. I offer him my knife.

The knife has never been too far away from me, hiding in pockets and up sleeves when I have to leave the car to go anywhere.

It slides into the man with ease, like a knife through butter. There’s a moment when the man remains smiling and then his mouth opens. I drag the knife across his stomach, splitting him open. He falls to the ground and panic erupts.

As people begin to scream and run around me, I manage to slide into the car and close the door.

I put my foot down and turn the wheel left, leaving the chaos of the motorway behind me. The car lurches a bit as its tires hit the grass.

I grit my teeth and soon the car is speeding along the field. I can see police cars in my rear view mirror. There is no way I can shake this many off my tail.

I drive across to fields, a small farmhouse comes into a view and I nod to myself. This is the way it will end.

I reach the farmhouse, to find that there are people inside it. I can see a woman maybe in her fifties, running to lock the doors. That won’t stop me from getting in. A quick look around the yard yields a stone wall. It’s old and some of the stones on the top are loose. With some luck, I manage to dislodge a rather large one. It breaks the window easily.

Now that I’m inside I’ve gained some upper ground. Now I have hostages.

The family is easy to subdue. I am, after all the killer from the TV. The one that has just murdered a man in daylight, in front of the police and a hundred witnesses. The family is made up of a grandmother, a two - maybe a three-year-old little boy and a baby so small, she’s still being swaddled.

I move them to an upstairs bedroom, trying not to think about Harry. Harry wanted children, wanted us to adopt. To give a child the love of a parent, just like he was lucky to have. It was never the right time, or so I told him. We worked too many hours, worked too many late nights. When our careers calmed down a little, when we had more time I would say. I never planned on letting Harry adopt. I never wanted to have to share Harry’s love. I never wanted to feel that he loved a child more than me.

The police gather around the outside of the yard. The woman from earlier steps out. She seems determined to lead.

Now I’ve stopped running, I can get a better look at her. Tall and lean, she’s wearing a cap tightly over her hair, however, a few loose strands of bright pink hair escape. This child is in the force? Things must have really gone downhill if people like her are allowed to wear the uniform.

She alone approaches the house, her hands held up.

I open the front door and we stare each other down for a moment.

“I’d like to talk,” she says confidently. “My name is Tonks.”

Add that to the growing list of things I dislike about this woman.

“I have nothing to say to a woman.”

She looks like I’ve just slapped her. “Mr. Riddle, you’re the last known person to see Harry Potter alive, if you know anything about where he is, his parents would love to know.”

Trying to use James and Lily against me? That may have worked had Harry’s parents actually liked me. As it stands, they never have. The bickering between us would only stop when Harry would threaten to bash our heads together. Harry could be so lovably charming when he was angry.

“Harry would want you to do the right thing.”

“Harry isn’t here.” I fold my arms and smirk at her. “Besides you have never met Harry, you have no idea what he would want.”

“Then why don’t you tell me where I can find him and I’ll ask him myself.”

Oh, she has balls. I laugh quietly to myself, for a woman she’s quickly earning my budergering respect. She can’t be allowed to continue to live. People need to remember that women like this have no place in the world, it can be my final act of mercy. “Come in.”

I walk into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I can at least be a gracious host.

“I like what you did the with the place,” She nervous. She knocks over a chair as I drop tea bags into two cups.

“I find decorating is woman’s work.” I shrug. I search the cupboards and find a tea set, God bless British housewives for being predictable.

I found a tray and set up the tea, I take it over to the nicely polished pine wood table and sit down.

“We’re still figuring out what happened three days ago, but there is still time for you to tell us.”

I glance out the window. The armed police have turned up. There’s no time.

“I suppose, what happened will never be known to the public.” I help myself to milk and sugar and stir. “That is the way Harry would’ve wanted it. He valued his privacy.”

“Harry is a journalist, right? He would want the truth.” Tonks leans over the table, her expression earnest and heartfelt. “Tom I know you love Harry. If he’s hurt, the doctors can help him, we just need to know where he is.”

I blow on my tea and take a sip. It’s disgusting. The grandmother must use some fowl cheap brand. I place the tea down. “I don’t think you fully understand the situation.”

I stand up and pace the kitchen, “You see, Harry is dead.”

Tonks looks unsure of what to say, she opens her mouth and then hastily closes it again. “Mr. Riddle -,”

“And so are you,” I continue as if she hasn’t spoken. “Because I won’t let you leave this house alive.” I turn to the sink, there’s a large bread knife just lying there. It would be a tragedy not to use it.

Tonks stands abruptly, the chair falling over in her haste. Disorientated she turns around and bends over to pick it up.

The moment she turns her back, she forfeits her life. I’m behind in her quick strides, grabbing her ponytail, forcing her neck back. The knife cuts through her skin as if it wasn’t even there.

I don’t let her fall, instead, I adjust my grip on her dying body. I carry her bridal style out of the house.

I hear the armed police shout. I hear them issues orders, which I ignore. I drop the now lifeless body of Officer Tonks and still holding the knife, walk forwards.

I don’t get far. Gunshots ring through the air.

I glance down at my body, I am bleeding. I glance up and there is Harry. My Harry, waiting for me.

“Oh, Tom.” he sighs, disappointed.

The world is slowly draining on colour. Harry, alone, remains bright and beautiful. A golden aura out surrounds him.

He holds out his hand and I reach out to take it. I stretch out my fingers to touch his, but as I do, darkness enfolds me.

“Harry.”  

 

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, the next fic I post/update will contain some sort of fluff :blobsweats:


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